AllFreeNovel
Share Us
one
Brinkley
The sun was shining,and a light breeze bustled around us. It was a beautiful day to be outside.
“So, the moral of the story is… when life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” I said.
“Ohhh. I love lemonade, Auntie!” Gracie clapped her hands together and bounced up and down. My niece was turning five years old soon, and now that I was living in Cottonwood Cove, I was able to spend lots of time with her. I’d picked her up from pre-K and brought her to my place to have lunch and do some gardening with me.
“Well, I do have lemonade. Let’s take a break and go inside, okay?” I dropped the hand shovel on the ground and swiped at the sweat rolling down my forehead. I glanced around to see the fresh dirt covering the four planter boxes I’d built over the last two weeks.
Two weeks. That was how long I’d been home.
That was how long I’d been unemployed.
Well, technically, I was working for myself. I was currently a freelance sports reporter, and I’d already submitted an article covering the truths behind the arrogance of professional athletes. But I’d had one particular athlete in mind when I’d written the article.
I thought it was my best work. I’d already heard back fromFootball Livemagazine, and though they’d loved the article, they felt it was too obvious that I was speaking of one specific athlete.
Lincoln. Mother. Freaking. Hendrix.
I guess calling him out as the GOAT of the NFL in the article was a dead giveaway.
They didn’t know that the man had gotten me fired from my last job because he’d had a childish meltdown on a public stage. Most people weren’t aware that I’d lost my job; they’d thought I’d just been kicked out of a press conference.
So,Football Liverequested that I make some tweaks. Make it sound more general.
Don’t reference anyone in particular.
Maybetone down my anger.
Their words, not mine.
I was just fine with my anger.
I’d put that article on the back burner because the truth was, I couldn’t write it without pointing out that man in particular.
As much as I wanted to prove that I could make it as a freelance writer, I wasn’t at a point in my career where I could financially pull this off for very long. I wasn’t well known at all, and I’d been working for a horrible man at a small press, trying to make a name for myself over the last few years.
I needed to focus on one strong story that would be easy to sell and land me a position at a large publication.
One where people would actually read my work.
Football Livesuggested I write an article on the trials and tribulations of professional football players.
I reached for two glasses and opened the refrigerator, pulling out the pitcher of lemonade.
My mind wandered to thoughts of Lincoln Hendrix.
Trials and tribulations, my ass.
That bastard was the highest-paid football player in the league. What did he have to be upset about?
The damn golden boy of football.
“You looks kind of angry, Auntie.” Gracie sat in the chair at my kitchen table, and her chubby little hands were folded together. We wore matching overalls, as she’d loved mine last week, so I’d gotten her a pair of her own so we could be twins today.
I’d rolled two bandanas and tied one around my head and then did the same to hers. Two little space buns with oodles of curls sat on top of her head, where the pink fabric gathered in a knot and the ends stuck straight up like rabbit ears.
